A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“She gave me five.”

“Welcome to my world. She bragged to my father that it was fifty. ‘Any man comes to the door, you give him fifty bucks?’ ‘Just the good-looking ones,’ my mother said.”

“What time is dinner?”

“Come at five-thirty.”

“Can I bring anything?”

“Drugs?” she suggests.

“What kind?”

“Your choice.”

I bring one of George’s better bottles of wine. “You kids drink the grape juice, I’ll stick to my usual, if you don’t mind,” her father says, making himself a drink and mumbling that soon they’re going to have to let the cleaning lady go because clearly she’s dipping into the spirits and watering it down to cover her tracks.

The décor throughout is stiff — chintz, toile, and Staffordshire bull terriers on the mantel, a clock that chimes every fifteen minutes. Honestly, I didn’t realize that people lived that way: very non-Jew, very company man and proud of it, a chair with ottoman, and a sofa, all beyond formal and almost painful, with crocheted doilies under the lamps. Amanda brings out a plate of appetizers, Triscuits dotted with Cheez Whiz, sliced green olives with red pimiento centers.

The table is set with china, crystal, and silver, a small cup of soup at each of our places. “Cream of mushroom,” Amanda announces. I dig in, and then see that no one is eating it. The mother has dipped her spoon in, and the father seems interested only in his drink and the remaining Triscuits. At first I think it’s about grace — they’re waiting for someone to say grace — and then I realize it’s just the way it is.

Amanda looks at me. I move to help her clear the table, and she shakes her head no. She clears and returns with dinner plates — serving her father and me first, and then her mother and herself. Four fish sticks each for father and me, and two for Amanda and her mother; six Tater Tots for the men, four for the women; three spears of asparagus each; and a broiled half-tomato.

“So much,” her mother says, “I’ll never be able to eat it all.”

“Do your best,” her father says.

“The fish is nice,” her mother says.

“Mrs. Paul’s,” Amanda mouths to me, as she takes a bite of a fish stick. Later, she tells me that the family’s menus are based on what her elementary-school cafeteria used to serve — fish sticks, spaghetti and meatballs, tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches, snickerdoodles. “For some reason my mother saved all the mimeographed menus — she calls it her recipe book.”

“What’s for dessert?” her mother asks just after the fish is served.

“Pound cake with whipped cream and berries,” Amanda says.

The berries prompt the father to talk about eating strawberries and cream at Wimbledon. “Back in the days when tennis was played with racquets.”

No one says anything; I am assuming he means wooden racquets.

“Let me tell you a little bit about what I do,” the father says, leaning in. “I’m the guy who would decide what your life is worth if you died right now. I’d evaluate who you were, what you might have become, and what your family counted on you for — a big responsibility. Everyone thinks they’re more special than they are. Sometimes I just pick a person and think, what would we settle that life for?”

“Like who?” I ask.

“William F. Buckley,” the father says.

“He’s dead,” Amanda says.

“When?”

“A few years ago.”

“That’s a shame — he was valuable. Mother Teresa, then,” he suggests.

“Also dead,” Amanda says.

“What would you pay for her?” I ask.

“Nothing. She had no family, no obligations, and no income; she’s worth nothing. Interesting, isn’t it?” he says enthusiastically. “Any ketchup or cocktail sauce? Sometimes I like to spice it up.”

Amanda goes into the kitchen, and returns with condiments.

“I’ll be sure to leave you a good tip,” her father says, and I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.

“Coffee or tea?” Amanda asks.

“I couldn’t manage another bite,” her mother says. The tomato is half gone, two asparagus, half a fish stick, and two Tots.

“My daughter tells me you like social studies. Ever read the report of the Warren Commission?” her father asks.

I nod.

“I can’t put it down. I’m on my second copy — the first one fell into the tub. I just keep going through it. I’m not sure why, not sure what I’m looking for. It’s like an Agatha Christie mystery. Off the record, a fellow in my field used to swear that what killed Jack Kennedy was his corset.”

“Pardon?”

“Look at the film, you see that after the first shot Kennedy goes down but then he bounces back up; that’s because he was wearing a corset for his back, which held him up. The second shot gets him in the bean,” he says, tapping the side of his head. And then, as if speaking to himself, he asks, “How many bullets were there?”

“Three?”

“So — you think it was a conspiracy?”

Before I can answer, he continues, “The arrogance caught up with him; he was taking ladies upstairs during state dinners, leaving his wife right there at the table. I’d like to have had half the bad back he had — if you get my point. I’m telling you he had one too many of the ladies, and some Miami mafioso with a baby boy a little too Kennedy-looking wanted revenge.”

“Interesting, I hadn’t heard that one before,” I say.

“Harrumph,” he says, like I’m an idiot.

“Daddy,” Amanda says, “Harry isn’t so interested in Kennedy, he’s a Nixon man.”

Amanda clears the table; I get up and help her. In the kitchen, I press against her as she’s rinsing dishes.

“No,” she says. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Not in my parents’ house.”

“Didn’t you ever make out with a boy in here? Play spin the bottle in the recreation room?”

“Ours is an unfinished basement,” she says, glaring at me defiantly.

When we come back, her mother is sitting in the living room with a book and her father is nowhere to be seen. Her mother looks up, “Do you remember that I used to call you and your sister Salamanda?” her mother asks. “Samantha and Amanda combined. I loved that. ‘Come, Salamanda, time to get outta the wattah.’”

“I loved it too,” Amanda says, her face softening for a rare moment. “Do you know where Daddy is?”

“No idea.”

“I’ll be right back,” Amanda says, heading off to find her father.

“Nixon liked to put ketchup on his cottage cheese,” I say to her mother in an attempt to make conversation. “His breakfast usually consisted of cottage cheese with ketchup or black pepper, fresh fruit, wheat germ, and a cup of coffee.”

“You can bet that’s not what his mother fed him growing up,” she says. “Cyrus’s mother always made shirred eggs and dry white toast. Took me years to get his breakfast right.”

“Where was Daddy?” the mother asks when Amanda comes back.

“He’s gone to bed. He said he thought we were done for the night.”

“So much for game night,” her mother says. “We were going to play Scrabble; your father is a very good strategist.”

I’m home by seven-thirty; the sky is still light. The air is filled with the promise of spring; each day the light clings a little longer, the plants are plush with new growth. I hear crickets, distant dogs barking.

Ricardo’s aunt is waiting on the front stoop. “Everything okay?” She shakes her head. “My husband is jealous of the time I spend with Ricardo,” she says. “Maybe Ricardo could come live here for a while. I would do everything like I do now — I would cook and clean and do his laundry — but he could stay here with you.”